


copyright and coping, not necessarily in that order

by Canonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Coping, Fluff, Healing, Laughter, Self-Esteem Issues, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but like blink and you’ll miss them, mentioned - Freeform, or as tooth rotting as my fluff gets, takes place after ep 22 but still season 1, umm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24439933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canonymous/pseuds/Canonymous
Summary: Jon’s investigations into the supernatural award him no answers, although they do offer a noteworthy encounter.(Or, Martin has a comical way of dealing with the creepy-crawlies, and Jon is just tired enough to find it hilarious.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	copyright and coping, not necessarily in that order

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this as a quick break from my au fics i’ll never finish. is it ooc? PERHAPS... but i liked writing it. sometimes you project so hard onto a character you give them your own method of coping with fear as a treat

The Archive is a place for fear.

Jon’s not sure how it manages to fail at emulating its day time self, in the gloom of night, but the knowledge it is dark and cold and no one would come, if he were to call, it adds a thick film of  _ worry _ to every step he dares take. It’s not the dark, specifically, nor the strangeness of it all, or even really the perpetual fear of being watched he has yet to truly acknowledge or come to terms with; it just..  _ pulses _ with this indescribable, tangible  _ fear _ that threatens to reach out and wrap right around his throat.

He has made an unfortunate habit of staying late. It isn’t something he totally meant to establish, and he knows it does wonders for the speculation of his questionable mental health for his assistants. It’s just that—the first or third time he’d found himself in the office past eight pm, when he’d gone to stand and fumble around in the choking anxiety of a night-touched Archive for an exit, Elias had caught him in the hall. He would do just about anything for the thrill of validation from on high, and Elias had smiled, thinly, and he’d gone,

_ “Working the midnight oil, Jonathan?” _

_ He blinks, lets his vision refocus. “Jon,” he corrects belatedly, ready to defend his habit. “I was just—“ _

_ Elias puts his hands up, palms forward, and chuckles as if amused by his own mock surrender. “It’s not an accusation,” he clarifies, voice slowing to linger on syllables like he was adding a meaning Jon couldn’t quite catch. “I admire your dedication, Jon, especially so.. early in your journey. It’s remarkable.”  _

_ Jon can’t think of anything to say, never one comfortable in responding to praise with anything apart from ducking his head and burning the words in his mind to go over later. He swallows, nervous for reasons he doesn’t understand. It feels different than the palpable fear of the Archive breathing down his neck. “...Thank… you?” he tries, sounding out of practice even to his own ears. _

_ Elias nods, like an approval. “We’ll make an Archivist of you, yet,” he says, and then turns to leave. Jon pauses. Considers. Then, with the commendation of a boss who sees something in him Jon doesn’t even see in himself ringing in his ears, spins and heads back into the murky discomfort that pretends to be his workplace.  _

He’s already heard Elias bid a farewell, though, because he’d dipped in to comment loudly on having indulged their complaints and called an exterminator about the “so-called worms” in a tone grating enough in its skepticism even Jon had taken note. So when he catches what is almost  _ words _ from the hall surrounded by unending, unspoken, unheard statements, Jon nearly jumps out of his skin.

He’s far less certain any of his assistants had left today—he takes less notice of goodbyes that aren’t personally offensive—but finds it hard to believe anyone would remain past 12 am. Even  _ he’s _ starting at the border of what he considers tired enough to rest, marked by symptoms including but not limited to blurred vision, dizziness, and forgetfulness formidable enough to impede his work. Who would still  _ be _ here?

_ What _ could still be here?

He rolls his shoulders, an effort to dispel the unpleasant chill that rolls from then down his spine with a vengeful tingle, clenching his teeth when it does less than nothing for him. He can indulge in anxieties with no audience, and he worries even if he comes face to face with whatever is murmuring, high and tinged with panic, he will still have no human company.

Ridiculous. He’s being  _ ridiculous— _ supernatural beings are not real. It’s probably some burglar thinking the stuffy old Institute has some hidden cash, probably an animal that’s found its way inside, it’s…

Probably something he should investigate, if only to alleviate his burning curiosity. (There. Does that satisfy the eyes on his back? A half baked rationalization too flimsy to resist prodding at the fourth wall?) Ridiculous.

He stands, and the second his chair scraps along the floor, the faint almost-voice grinds to a halt, making an imitation of silence. He takes it as fleeing, panics—he grabs for a torch and takes off toward the hall from which he’d heard it, in the direction of storage. Black spots dance in his vision, another delight of that  _ fantastic _ nauseating awakeness of staying up too late and too long, but he ignores them in favor of pursuing the sound.

It’s as his hands wrap around the handle of the door he’s barging into that he realizes several things at once.

  1. The voice is not speaking, or shouting—it is singing.
  2. He really should’ve put more stake in the whole _memory issues_ aspect of his rampant insomnia before deciding _none_ of his assistants would still be at the Institute.
  3. Martin is staying at the Institute now.
  4. Jon invited him here.
  5. He is singing _Uptown Girl_ by Billy Joel.



“ _ Jon—?!”  _ Martin shrieks, breaking off a surprisingly accurate string of notes delivered with a significant degree of panic. He’s holding a bright red fire extinguisher that stands out stark against the baby blue of his nightshirt, fingers clenched like he intended to use it as a weapon. “Ch—Christ, you scared the daylights out of me!”

“You,” he says, intelligently, “are. You, uh, you…’re staying here still.” 

Martin pales, and Jon’s heart rate begins to slow, giving way to embarrassment he hopes against hope he’s not showing on his face. “Er.. Am I not meant to be? S-Sorry, I—I didn't—“

“No! No, of course, I.” He rubs his face with both his hands, nearly nudging his glasses carelessly off his face. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a comforting blur to Martin that’s less due to the way he’d jostled the frames and more with how tired he is. “I had.. forgotten, and was. Somewhat startled to hear another voice, at..”

“12:30 in the morning?” Martin prompts, voice tinged with shame for a reason Jon has to search his mental Archives for.

“Sure,” he agrees, to get back to the question that's popped up in his head. “Were you.. singing?”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but whatever it is, it’s certainly not for the worrisome speed with which Martin turns faintly pink-tinged. He wrinkles his nose, aware he’s stumbled into something that will somehow be undesirable to discuss but unsure how to dispel the question. 

Martin glances behind Jon, checking for a threat, evidently, before sighing and setting his fire extinguisher down. Jon resists the urge to point out it would be much less effective as a blunt force object than if used with the handle, preferring to hear about the singing. 

“...How much did you hear?” he asks, sounding like he’s been caught at something truly despicable. He sits down on the cot, feet still touching the ground.

“Heard a voice through the walls,” he relays, “and then—when I got down this way, I heard a substantial enough amount to recognize  _ Uptown Girl. _ ”

Martin groans, loud enough Jon jumps slightly where he’s standing; this seems to surprise Martin, and then he’s waving Jon over to sit at the end of the bed while they talk. He hides a grimace. Social interaction  _ and _ a mystery that would apparently be unpleasant to explain? Not a winning combination, in Jon’s eyes.

“I heard—a, a noise,” Martin begins, when Jon sits reluctantly down. “Just the Institute settling, no doubt. I thought you’d headed home already, what with the time, and.”

Martin throws his hands up in dismay, admitting in a rush, “ _ Sometimes _ when I get creeped out, I try to sabotage the horror movie I’m in.”

Jon.. blinks.

Then, 

“ _ What?” _ he asks, so confounded that the admission startles a laugh out of him. “The—?”

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Martin says, waving him off like the incredulous laughter that’s threatening to continue even over Martin’s words is deeply offensive. “I just—it helps! If— _ shush— _ if I were in a horror movie, the things I say could easily break the, the tension enough the audience wouldn’t.. get a good jumpscare out of some kind of monster attack. So. So the monster attack won’t, uh, happen.”

Jon’s properly suppressing giggles, but just barely; he finds it in him to question, “Why  _ Uptown Girl? _ ”

He meets his eyes, looking downright miserable. “It would ruin the copyright,” he whines, and Jon, having pressed his chest to the wall of insomnia-induced hysterical laughter and hardly retreated,  _ cackles _ . It just—it’s so  _ arbitrary,  _ the idea of copyright rules applying to monsters and demons or whatever else could be lurking in the dimly lit Archive after hours. It’s the kind of thing any one of them, not just Jon, would find laughable in a statement, much less with caffeine and fading adrenaline pumping through their veins. 

Martin starts laughing, too, after a healthy amount of shock and faint horror at Jon indulging in amusement of all things. “Can you imagine something like—“ he breaks off to snicker, “ _ Jane Prentiss _ , trying to head at you past midnight while you’re on about ‘ _ looking for a downtown man’? _ No!”

“Probably because she has taste,” Jon wheezes, and then promptly claps a hand over his mouth, mortified. “I—I shouldn’t joke, I don’t want to make light of—“

Martin shakes his head, curls bouncing wildly as he does so, the intensity in his eyes at the reassurance compelling Jon to look away. “ _ Please _ make light of it,” he insists, “it’s literally the entire strategy. Sometimes I try and, and, you know, up the rating? Like, just say as many curse words as I can think, like—“

He evidently can’t think of  _ any  _ because they both start up in giggles again.

“Have you tried, er,” Jon starts, rubbing at his tired eyes, “making a sound effect? Like, ‘boi-oi-oing’ and what have you?” 

But Martin is already moving to hug at his midsection, shaking with unrestrained laughter—loud, raucous and absolutely ugly in its volume. Jon appreciates it on a level he can’t articulate for a myriad of reasons, though mainly because it makes him feel like his own laughter will go unheard over the ruckus. They both take a long moment to get it under control, eventually sputtering to a stop with a faint sigh of contentment, twin breaths of what’s almost relief in the creeping quiet. 

There’s a creak within the wall, and they both glance at one another—there’s an unnatural, stark feeling of sudden unease, sure, but it takes a backseat for just a moment to the jokes that come to mind, now. Martin murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like  _ boing _ and Jon allows for a smile before he stands, moment passed; he slips his hands into his pockets and nods as he heads out.

And if he hums a tune on the way out, well. Maybe he’s just in the mood for a song.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! would love if you could drop a kudos and comment <3 find me on tumblr at @/themostrabidofcarebears! i don’t bite!


End file.
